


Now Them Soakers Is In For A Soakin'

by polkadotPotter



Series: gabi's newsie fics [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxious Racetrack Higgins, Bad Puns, Coming Out, Fist Fights, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Racetrack Higgins, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Javid, Italian Racetrack Higgins, M/M, Maybe they didnt, Maybe they got together after this, Me using Patches name as a pun?? It's more likely than you think, Patches totally knows that Spot likes Race lmao, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Spot Conlon, Race gets beat up :(, Race is not the best fighter, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, They're not together yet, but they will be, i like to think that they did, very briefly though, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadotPotter/pseuds/polkadotPotter
Summary: Race has a bad habit of getting soaked for no damn reason. Spot's had enough and decides to fight back.





	Now Them Soakers Is In For A Soakin'

Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins had the worst goddamn luck in all of Manhattan, and probably Brooklyn too. It _might_ be a stretch to include Flushing and Richmond and Woodside and The Bronx as well, but honestly, Race was feeling so down on his luck right then and there that he tossed every other borough into the mix too. 

As the other boy's fist connected with his cheek, Race pulled in a few neighboring cities as well. He definitely had some bum luck.

Race stumbled, but didn't let himself fall, putting up his fists and shifting his weight from foot to foot as he grinned wickedly at the newsie in front of him. Some sucker from Queens, it was, pickin' a fight for no good reason. "What, ya got's ta do better than that," Race teased. It probably wasn't helping that he kept egging the other boy on, but he couldn't help it. Race couldn't fight without talking. After all, for someone who wasn't too good with his fists, his wit was his greatest weapon. Best thing ever if you needed to stall, which was something Race found himself needing to do often. "I ain't know whys you picked a fight with me, but I's got two boroughs behind me and you's got one." His grin grew, wolfish and tainted with blood. "So hows about you hit me again, huh?"

The newsie didn't look too pleased about his quips, and with a deep frown he was letting out a loud whistle. Race felt his heart stop at the noise, felt his breath catch in his throat when two more newsies appeared in the alley. "You was sayin'?" his opponent asked, baring his teeth. "You may got two boroughs, but theres one 'a yous and three of us. So's right about now, I'd be runnin' if I was you."

Race didn't need to be told twice. He was trapped in a dead end alley, but he at least _tried_ to run around the three boys blocking his exit. It was futile, because as soon as he got to the street he was yanked back in by two sets of arms, turned around harshly only for his stomach to meet a fist. " _Merde_ ," Race gasped, the wind knocked out of him. His arms behind his back, three against one, nobody knowin' where he was- well, shit. He was fucked.

A few more punches to the stomach and Race was pushed to the ground, apparently deemed useless enough that he wasn't worth the effort of holding back anymore. After a short attempt at scrambling away, Race resigned himself to curling up and putting his arms over his head. Someone kicked him in the shin, another foot collided with his back. Shit, that hurt.

"Oi!" came a voice, and for one terrifying moment, Race thought it was another Queens newsie. _I'm gonna die,_ he thought, panicked and miserable. _This is it, I'm really gonna fuckin' die here_. "Oi, what the hell's you fellas doin'? Get offa him!"

The kicking stopped and Race had to stop himself from whining in relief. "It ain't none ya business," snarled one of the Queens boys. "Get lost, Brooklyn." Timidly, Race unwrapped his arms from around his head, looking up at whatever Brooklyn newsie had come upon him. He nearly choked when he recognized the person as Silver, Spot's second in command. Silver was tough as nails with a baby face, and damn good at selling papes- lots of times, he could weasel a nickel or even a dime out of the people buying from him- hence, the name Silver. And boy, was Race fucking glad to see him here. 

"You ain't wanna talk to me like that when yous in my territory, Queens," Silver said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm second in command to Spot Conlon, and I's seen ya faces. 'S probably best if you fellas run now."

"And if we don't?" one of the boys asked. 

Silver gave them an impassive look. "Turf war, if yous is lucky." Then, finally, Silver's eyes drifted down to look at the victim of the violence- and promptly widened is shock. "Race, is that you?"

Race smiled weakly, wincing as he lifted a hand in greeting. "Heya, Silver. Papes sellin' good today?"

Silver sent Race a look of exasperation and concern, before turning back to the Queens newsies. "You fellas is in real trouble now," he said, voice dropping. "Race here's a personal friend 'a Spot. Jack Kelly, too. When they find out yous been messin' with their buddy- well, Jack's practically his brother. And I ain't never seen Spot closer to anyone else, Brooklyn or otherwise." Now the Queens boys looked nervous, and Race smirked. 

"I fuckin' told yous guys," he said, all smug and covered in dirt. "Sucks you didn't listen."

"Man, _you_ shut up," said the one who'd started it, pointing viciously at Race. For a moment, Race flinched, thinking maybe he'd get another kick- but then, the three boys were retreating, making their way out of the alley. "Fine, we's goin'."

Silver glared at them as they went. "Good. Yous better not come back, or you'll have all of two boroughs on your asses." Silver watched them leave, and when they turned onto the street he jogged over to Race, concern molding his features. "Shit, Race. What the hell happened?"

Race let his head fall back against the ground, eyes closing. "Man, I don't even know. I was walkin' back from Sheepshead, this kid comes outta nowhere, just starts railin' on me. Soaked me real good, too."

"Shit," Silver said, and Race opened his eyes to see him weaing a pained look on his face. "Spot ain't gonna be happy about this."

"Is he?" Race asked, and Silver positioned himself to help Race slowly sit, and then stand. Race winced as he straightened his spine, ribs and back aching. His shin throbbed when he put pressure on his right leg, and his face felt bruised and swollen. Yeah, Spot was gonna be mad.

"You know what I think it might be?" Silver asked as he helped Race put an arm around his shoulders. "There's been a lotta Queens kids goin' to Manhattan recently, couple'a them comin' to Brooklyn too. Lots'a younger ones. Kids that make more profit."

"So what, you think they's sour 'cuz they're losin' out on revenue?" Race asked as they started walking down the street. Silver nodded grimly. A few passerby slowed to look at them, stare at Race's rumpled form and bruised face. "Hey, you think I could sell more papes like this, lookin' like I got jumped? Get some sympathy?"

"At Sheepshead?" Silver asked. "Maybe. They's always startin' fights over there." 

The conversation died out as they went, and Race realized about halfway through the journey that Silver was taking him to the Brooklyn lodging house instead of back to Manhattan. Strangely, he didn't mind. 

What he did mind, was when they arrived, everyone was worked into a frenzy. Silver knocked on the door, and as soon as it opened, Pigeon (who'd gotten her name from the odd way birds seemed to follow her on her paper route) blurted "Holy shit, is that _Race_?", and soon all the nearby newsies were crowding around them, chattering and looking at Race.

"Aw man, who did that?"

"Race got soaked real good!"

"Where even was he?"

"Does the other guy look this bad?"

"You think he's gonna be laid up for a whiles?"

"Poor Race, he ain't gonna be sellin' no papes like that, lookit, Silver's gotta help him stand!"

Race's head swam from the attention, his aching body and pounding headache worsening every time a new voice joined the fray. "Hey..." he tried weakly, earning the attention of Silver.

"Ah shit, Race, yous looking real pale," said Pigeon, eyes wide. "Do ya think yous gonna hurl?"

"I will if ya keep talking this loud," he muttered, swaying heavily into Silver's side.

"Hey, everyone back up!" Silver tried, angling his head so he wasn't yelling into Race's ear. "Racetrack needs _space_ , ya damn goons!" The rest of the newsies pushed and shoved at each other, chattering animatedly as they tried to create space, but ended up just creating a mess of more movement. Race pressed his palm to his brow, swallowing harshly.

"I ain't feelin' so good," he told Silver.

And then, suddenly, a loud "HEY!" was heard above the chaos, and every newsie froze in tandem. Looking up, Race saw Spot Conlon perched at the top of the stairs, peering down at the room below. "What the hell's all this noise about?"

Nobody said a word, and silently, the crowd parted, creating a walkway from the stairs to Race and Silver. Spot, wearing a frown, followed the path, his face contorting into worry and anger when he noticed Race leaning against Silver. "What the fuck happened?" he growled, staring at Race's beaten form.

Race sucked in a sharp breath. "Got soaked real good," he said, ignoring the pounding in his head when he spoke. "Silver thinks Queens is mad 'cuz Manhattan's been stealin' their kids."

Spot looked at Silver, fury burning in his gaze. " _Was_ it Queens?" he asked. Silver nodded. Spot clenched his fists, inhaling deeply before turning to Race. "Give him to me." Silver looked to Spot for a moment before carefully stepping out from under Race's arm, letting it drape over Spot's shoulder instead. "Get Patches to meet me in my room. I'm takin' this idiot." Spot slowly guided Race through the throng of newsies, a lot gentler than Race would've expected, leading him up the stairs to his room and depositing him on the bed- again, very gentle. His face was unreadable.

"Thanks," Race croaked.

"Why was you really soaked, Race?" Spot asked, and Race turned to look at him. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and Race gulped.

"I dunno what you mean."

Spot stepped closer, his face falling into a glare. There was no malice behind it, Race knew that, but it still made him squirm. "Racer, ain't nobody beatin' up a newsie for somethin' they can't help. We both know this weren't over no little kids goin' to Manhattan. So what gives?"

Race pursed his lips, his face falling as he looked away from Spot. "It's... you might not wanna help me if you finds out."

"Really?" Spot raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "That's what yous worried about, Higgins? I don't scare easily."

"I know!" Race assured him, eyes wide. "I know, it's just- well, lotsa fellas wouldn't a done what I did... they probably woulda stood with Queens."

"Well I don't stand with Queens," Spot said. It was a challenge, paired with a hard look, and Race knew when he looked at Spot that he wasn't gonna be able to get away with not answering, so that he might as well get it over with.

"These fellas, they was walkin' together. Real close," he said, and he ducked his head. "Ducked into some alley. I dunno why the newsie from Queens was in Brooklyn, but I saw him follow them inta the alley and I didn't like that none, 'cuz I thought he was gonna go start up trouble an' so I went and followed him in there and I was right- he was yellin' all sorts a stuff at the guys, callin' them homos and fags and tellin' them that he was gonna call the bulls and I just-" Race sucked in a breath, pausing in his story. He screwed his eyes shut. "I told him to stop, cuz it weren't none a his business what those fellas were doin' in that alley. And he didn't like that none. Told me that I might as well be a homo too, started railin' on me."

Spot was silent, and Race didn't dare look up at him. Quietly, he added, "At least them other guys got away. They didn't look like they knew much about handlin' a fight like me."

Finally, Spot shook himself out of his stupor. "You ain't too good in a fight neither, Racetrack," he said, gesturing with a hand to the boy in front of him. Race blinked, pausing.

"You ain't gonna say nothin' about it?" he asked, hesitantly, like he was scared to mention it but felt like he should.

Spot shrugged. "Do ya want me to?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ain't nothin' I cares about. Two fellas, two dames, don't matter none ta me as long as I get my papes sold." Race looked up at him, eyes wide and the hint of a smile curling his lips. Spot swallowed hard. "'Sides, it would be a bit hypocritical o' me to hate on them fellas, ya know? We gots similar issues."

Race sucked in a breath, staring at Spot in shock. "I-" he said. He hadn't expected that. Spot was like him? Spot was like him. Spot was- "Er, uh, me too, I guess." When Spot didn't respond, he rushed to add "Plus, I mean, Jack and Davey... they's my brothers, you know? I ain't gonna hate them none."

Now it was Spot's turn to stare. "Oh," was all he said. There was an emotion in his voice, a lot of it, but Race couldn't place his finger on what it was. He just looked up at the other boy -The King of Brooklyn, he reminded himself- with big eyes, and maybe a little bit of hope. Spot looked back. His cheeks might have been red, but Race wouldn't know; he was too busy just looking at those dark brown eyes, all tough and sincere and serious.

Before either of them could say anything more, a knock on the door sounded, startling both of them. Race pressed a hand to his chest dramatically as Spot looked away, clearing his throat. "Come in," he said, stepping away from Race as the door opened. It was Patches, who shuffled inside and obliviously set their med kit on the rickety stand next to Spot's bed.

"Sorry I's took so long, couldn't find the kit," he said, plopping down next to Race. "Damn, Racer, yous really took a beatin'. Damn Queens."

Spot nodded along while Race blushed, ducking his head in embarrassment. "Damn Queens," he echoed, gritting his teeth. "I'm gonna teach them soakers a lesson. Sees how they like it."

Race looked up at Spot so fast he nearly cricked his neck. "Spotty, you ain't gotta do that. I don't wanna start nothin'-"

"You ain't startin' nothin', Racer. They did that when they came on my turf an' soaked my bud." Spot kicked at the floor. "They's lucky I ain't gettin' Manhattan on 'em too."

There was no changing his mind, Race knew, because Spot Conlon was an unstoppable, immovable force. He winced as Patches wiped at his face, but kept his eyes on Spot. "Just don't go startin' no turf war, ya hear? I ain't worth all that."

Spot gave Race a look. "Maybe I says you is," he shot back, before glancing at Patches, who raised an eyebrow at him. His shoulders slumped. "But fine. No war. Just me and the guys soakin' a couple'a bozos."

Race closed his eyes. "Don't end up like me, 'kay?"

"No problem," Spot smirked. "Unlike you, I can hold my own in a fight." 

"Fuckin' rude," Race huffed, crossing his arms over his stomach. He winced when his forearm brushed against his bruised ribs. "Ah, shit."

"Careful," Spot scolded him, crossing his arms. Race watched carefully as his muscles flexed with the movement. God, he was weak for those muscles. And how Spot openly cared for him. Not soft and mushy, but Race knew he cared, and so did the other newsies. Which was nice. "Well," Spot cleared his throat. "I's better get goin' if I wanna find them Queens boys. Patches, take care 'a Racer. And he ain't goin' back to 'hattan tonight, he's too beat up."

"Spot-" Race tried to protest, but it was a lost cause.

"I ain't letting you go all the way 'cross the bridge lookin' like that," Spot told him, pointing a stern finger at his nose. Race went cross eyed following the movement. "And don't worry about it none, I'll get word to Kelly."

Race pouted, but otherwise relented. "Fine," he grumbled. Patches got to work wrapping his hand in a bandage. "But you be careful Spotty. Seriously, I don't wanna hear about you gettin' in no trouble." Race almost added, _Not for me_ , but he thinks that Spot picked up on it anyway, because he got another sharp look.

"Like I said, Racer. You means a lot. I ain't gonna let nobody mess around with one'a my boys." 

And with that, Spot left. 

Race sighed, and Patches diligently continued to fix him up -patch him up, if you will. It was somewhere between an easy and awkward silence, but if Patches wanted to mention how soft Spot was for Race, he didn't mention it. 

"Thank you," Race said when Patches was finally done. 

Patches smiled at him. "You's one of us, Racetrack. You know?"

Race blinked. "Really?"

"Spot says you's honorary Brooklyn, we ain't gonna question it," he said with a shrug. "You ever need anything, we's gonna be here for ya."

"Oh," Race said, almost dreamily. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah," Patches said, rolling his eyes. "Now get some rest, I don' want Spot comin' back and seein' you all awake and tired." Race nodded, letting himself fall onto the bed, realizing just how exhausted he was.

"Oh, man," he whined, nuzzling his face into the pillow. It smelled good. Like Spot. It was also very, very soft. "I think I'm gonna just... doze off..."

Patches snorted as Race began to drift into sleep, almost pathetically fast. "Yeah. 'Night Racer."

\-----

When Spot came back that night, fists bruised and a rag held against his nose, he found Race in his bed, sound asleep. His face was bruised and his brow was scrunched, but his hair pressed against the pillow was one of the prettiest damn things that Spot had ever seen. He felt his heart clench at the sight. He really did like Race.

And if Race woke up the next morning to find Spot Conlon sleeping next to him only to smile and go back to bed, well. Nobody needed to know.


End file.
